


a long night beating up the past

by lardosundercut (staccato_ramble)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Dubcon Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Jack Zimmermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 13:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13571886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staccato_ramble/pseuds/lardosundercut
Summary: Jack doesn't even bother to say anything. Instead, he watches as the chaos of the Epikegster turns its focus to the arrival of Kent Parson with full force. As people begin to swarm for pictures, the claustrophobia that had already been building gets to be too much. Jack's stomach feels like it has dropped all the way down to the basement and, as Lardo ushers Parse away, he makes a break for it.Coda for the Parse/Epikegster episodes.





	a long night beating up the past

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be a coda for Part 3 of the Epikegster and, as such, some of the dialogue is taken directly from the comic as Ngozi wrote it. The title is taken from _Over When It’s Over_ by Eric Church, which I’m sure Confirmed Country Fan™ Jack Zimmermann would approve of.
> 
> See the notes at the end for an explanation of the dubcon and mental health/anxiety tags if you'd like to know before reading.

Jack doesn't even bother to say anything. Instead, he watches as the chaos of the Epikegster turns its focus to the arrival of Kent Parson with full force. As people begin to swarm for pictures, the claustrophobia that had already been building gets to be too much. Jack's stomach feels like it has dropped all the way down to the basement and, as Lardo ushers Parse away, he makes a break for it. With the epicenter of the party shifted, the stairs are blissfully clear and Jack takes them two at a time until he's safe in his own room. Once there, he belatedly realizes that he's gripping his cup so tightly that it cracked. Jack chugs what's left of his beer, wipes the sticky residue on his hands onto his jeans, and says, "Fuck."

Jack suddenly feels like his skin is too tight, making him itch in a way that's impossible to scratch. He tells himself that he's not freaking out (or, at least, not too badly) and that it's natural to be surprised by Parse's appearance. After all, they haven't talked in a few months and watching the Aces play on TV is a far cry from an actual visit. Closing his eyes for a minute, Jack tries to ground himself. He is in the Haus and Parse showed up and so what? It isn't the end of the world. Unsure now if the buzzing is from the beer or just an overreaction, Jack sits down firmly on his bed and reaches to grab the puck off his bedside table. He's not even sure where it came from, the puck itself is plain black and scratched from play. The weight of it is familiar and comforting as Jack turns it over in his palm, even as the noise from downstairs seems to be reaching an apex.

When there's a knock on his door, Jack falters, dropping the puck on the ground. It rolls away from him to where Parse stands in the doorway. He scoops it up and tosses it easily to Jack without straying far from the open door. Away from the crowd, Parse seems a lot less like a celebrity and more like the actual person that Jack knows. He smiles widely, which Jack mirrors even as he begins to fiddle with the puck again.

"Zimms, we're getting old," Kent says wryly, "Some girl just wiped the floor with me at flippy cup."

"Probably Lardo," Jack replies, smile growing. "Been a while, euh?"

"Yeah."

Kent's reply is soft enough that it takes Jack by surprise. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but quietness wasn't it. There's an awkward silence for what feels like forever, then Jack clears his throat. "You're allowed to come in. Just close the door, okay?"

Nodding, Kent does so and, with the door shut, the noise downstairs dulls. Once he's inside all the way, Kent immediately notices the whiteboard hanging near Jack's desk. It's his calendar, currently jam-packed with the due dates for assignments, the team's practice schedule, and contact info for different NHL reps. The desk itself is strewn with different debris: textbooks that he needs to sell back, a print-off of the recipe he needs for his Women and Foods final, and several pro/con lists. Jack feel the familiar burn of embarrassment on his face and neck when Kent picks up a paper with "Providence Falconers" written and underlined at the top. He studies it intently, smile fading somewhat. Still, Kent keeps his voice light when he asks, "Looks like you're still open to anywhere, huh?"

They spent countless roadies together talking about different NHL teams and what the future would be like based on where they signed. Jack had always said that he didn't care and would go wherever he was drafted. Kent, on the other hand, saw himself taking an underdog team on to glory and fame. The chirp rubs him the wrong way because Jack tries to avoid thinking about the draft and the Q and everything else from that time. It doesn't work usually but having  _Kent_  of all people in the middle of his bedroom really isn't helping his resolve.

"I haven't signed anywhere," Jack says, trying to keep his voice level and causal. "But you didn't come all the way to Samwell to hear that, did you?"

Kent frowns and sets the list back where he found it, looking like he wants to say something. This unnerves Jack a little, because Kent has never been one to mince his words. Kent's mouth stays shut though, taking his hat off in order to push down at the cowlick on his forehead. A few years ago, the two of them were so in sync that it bordered on telepathy. That's why they were so great on the ice together.

Now, Kent drops his shoulders a little before walking right in front of where Jack sits on the bed. Kent’s eyes narrow a little and he tilts his head forward as he asks, "Am I allowed to sit down, Jack?"

And this is the part that Jack hates because it reminds him of how paranoid and insecure he can be. He takes a breath, tries to steady himself and push back the buzzing that's made its way to the base of his skull. The last thing he wants is  _another_  drag-out fight with Kent in the Haus. Squaring his shoulders, Jack looks at his hands as he nods. The puck is still a familiar, grounding weight as he tosses it lightly and then catches it again.

"So, Providence, huh?” Kent asks, sinking into the bed just a few inches from Jack.

Even with the space between them, Jack can smell that Kent still wears the same Axe body spray as back in the Q. Back then, Kent’s terrible choice in deodorant had been the go-to chirp for their whole team and, as Jack breathes the scent in and lets the memories flood him, he tries to think of something clever to say about the combination of cheap cologne and flashy watch. Last time, they hadn’t gotten this close before the yelling started. Jack much prefers the quiet this time, its familiarity also brings him back to those sacred moments they’d spend in silence following a night of partying. The tightness in his chest eases and Jack loosens his grip on the puck, turning it slowly in his hands now.

It’s weird to have Kent in his room but it's not necessarily bad. This is far from the first time that he and Jack have discussed NHL prospects in a bedroom while a party thrummed outside. As he steadies himself with a breath and holds the puck still, Jack thinks that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t be in the Haus anymore. They’d be back in the bedroom he had at his billet’s house, which always smelled a little bit like the lavender air fresheners that were in every room rather than his current room, which always has the lingering scent of frat house no matter how many times Jack airs it out. Normally, he’s acclimated to the point where he doesn’t notice. But, with Kent close to him and anxiety still coursing through him, Jack is acutely aware that you can smell weed and beer and his own gym bag. It feels juvenile in a way that seemed impossible when they were in the Q because even if they were younger then, all the stakes seemed too high and intense for Jack to be self-conscious about dirty laundry.

He knows he has to say something here and answer Kent’s question, but Jack isn’t sure how. Closing his eyes for a second, Jack wills himself to be eighteen again. Things definitely weren’t easier then but they also weren’t…this. Whatever this is, with his ex-something flying halfway across the country and asking about Jack’s future like there hasn’t been miles and silence and something ugly between them for years now. No, Jack isn’t sure what to say because, currently, the silence between them almost feels like a truce and as the panic gradually ebbs from his chest, the last thing he wants to do is start fighting. His mind races but offers no solutions and his tongue feels heavy with uselessness. When Jack glances at Kent his eyes are unreadable as always and he’s doing the thing with his mouth where he’s not  _exactly_  frowning but he certainly isn’t smiling and it’s too much.

Jack looks pointedly down at his own hands like the puck will offer some sage wisdom. When Kent places one hand over his, Jack is taken by surprise. On instinct, he jerks back and drops the puck, watching helplessly as it bounces off the bedside table and under Jack’s bed. Kent’s voice is light when he asks, “I’m guessing the silence means you have no clue?”

“I mean…” Jack begins weakly, “It could be Montreal. It could be L.A., okay? I don’t know.”

A feeling of guilt washes over Jack as if he's admitted to some crime. It’s not like he hasn’t been thinking about it. On the contrary, figuring out what he’ll do after graduation is something that Jack has been thinking about a lot. Maybe too much, if you asked his therapist. Not allowing it to become an all-consuming decision has been hard at best and next to impossible some days. But he’s trying to keep from repeating the past. Jack isn’t sure how to explain all of that though, especially not to Kent. But then Kent gives his hands a squeeze and maybe Jack doesn’t need to say it aloud. He had been here for this last time, after all.

A silence hangs between them for what must be a minute but feels like an eternity. Just as Jack begins to feel self-conscious and considers drawing his hands back, Kent speaks. Again, his quiet tone takes Jack by surprise because he’s not used to seeing Kent as anything less than loud and explosive.

“What about Las Vegas?” he says, leaning in closer like he and Jack are sharing a secret.

“I…” Jack starts, licking his lips nervously because his mouth has gone dry. “I don’t  _know_ , okay?”

They’re so impossibly close to each other right now, even if the only point of contact his their hands touching on the bed. And because whatever they had been wasn’t just a one-way street, Jack knows he’s said the wrong thing. Parse inhales sharply through his nose and narrows his eyes a little like he wants to say something but he hasn’t quite decided on his wording. And,  _god_ , when he does it, Kent really looks like the angry sixteen-year-old that had hated being on Jack’s line at first. The part of Jack that has spent literal years in therapy learning how to identify his own destructive thoughts reminds him that he doesn’t owe Kent anything and it’s okay for Jack not to know where he’ll land. But the part of him that’s back to buzzing with nervous energy shifts into autopilot and he’s suddenly desperate to make it so things between him and Kent are okay again.

“Parse-” is all that Jack manages to say.

It’s all Jack manages to say because suddenly he and Parse are kissing. But Parse isn’t Parse anymore, he's not even Kent - he’s  _Kenny_. Kenny, who squeezes his hand once like he’s surprised before his hand moves to slide across Jack’s cheek and cup his jaw. It’s good to be kissing someone again, Jack thinks faintly. Especially because he knows how to kiss Kenny, moving his own hands to grab the other man’s waist, steadying him as their weight shifts on the bed. In his hands, Kenny is so warm and Jack remembers how they’d exchange chirps on roadies. Kenny was a furnace but still insisted on blasting the heat whenever they shared a hotel room and then claim he was trying to defrost Jack’s cold, Canadian heart and bones. But now, Jack doesn’t mind the heat at all. Instead, he seeks it out as he pulls Kenny’s shirt free from where he’s tucked it in and, as he does so, Kenny sucks on Jack’s bottom lip, pulling it into his own mouth.

It’s a dirty trick, makes Jack gasp and Kenny slides his tongue in so he can kiss Jack greedily. Kenny slides his other hand into Jack’s hair, pulling just a little. Jack can’t help himself, he moans a little into Kenny’s open mouth and frantically shoves his hands up Kenny’s shirt, running his hands over the muscles that he learned years ago. Before, every touch between them had felt desperate and urgent as they raced the clock to the draft picks. Jack missed this without realizing - the feel of someone solid under his hands and the shift of someone’s mouth against his own and the pleasant tightness stirring in his cock and-

And abruptly, Jack realizes that no matter how many times he and Kenny have done this, he has no clue what he’s doing right now. He’s suddenly conscious of how his heart is pounding like it wants to break free of his ribcage and his entire body has gone back to feeling tightly wound. Kenny pushes on the back of Jack’s neck to deepen the kiss even more and it’s too much. Jack pulls back and there’s a wet sound when his mouth comes away from Kenny’s. They’re both breathing a little heavily and Jack feels like his whole body is shaking, little spasms throughout his muscles as he tries to give his brain time to catch up. They hadn’t been laying down, but Jack’s back is braced against his headboard and, without realizing it, he’d pulled his legs up onto the bed. Kenny rests between them, one hand still in Jack’s hair while he uses the other to prop himself upright. At some point, his hat came off again and his hair is standing up in places other than his cowlick.

Jack feel raw like something has been yanked from the depths of his body and now sits vulnerably in the open air between them. Maybe Kenny feels the same way because he makes a soft sound that could’ve been “Zimms” or maybe just a sigh. He pulls his hand out of Jack’s hair and, while Jack feels the physical loss of touch, he doesn’t necessarily miss it like he would’ve before. He puts both of his hands over his face, pressing against his temples just for a second to help clear his head. But, then, Kenny hooks a finger into the collar of Jack’s shirt and presses a kiss to the sensitive spot on Jack’s collarbone. It’s an old trick. When they’d hooked up for the second time, he’d discovered that if he kissed and sucked just right, it was a basically a shortcut for sex. Before, Kenny’s mouth sweeping across his collarbone would make Jack melt. Now, Jack has never felt more solid in his life.

Swallowing hard, he says, “Kenny, I can’t do this.”

And Kenny stops immediately, reeling backward so he’s off of Jack completely. It’s a small comfort as his eyes widen with surprise before darkening with hurt. Jack can’t bear to look Kenny in the eyes when he’s so clearly upset and, instead, he focuses on Kenny’s hat where it sits just to the left of his hands.

“Jack, come on,” Kenny begins, voice low but not quite angry. Disappointed maybe.

Jack’s stomach churns violently as Kenny leans in. And Jack is acutely aware that Kenny hates talking about his shit about as much as Jack does, except he prefers finding a distraction rather than Jack’s own method of internalizing. If Jack doesn’t do something, they’re going to be kissing again and, if that happens, Jack isn’t sure if he’ll stop. But. But he _does_ want to stop, so Jack pushes on Kenny’s shoulders as gently as he can as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“No, I-” Jack begins but realizes he’s not sure of what he’s saying. He gets off the bed, walks the two paces to the door as if the distance will help before trying again, “Uh, Kenny-”

“-Zimms, just fucking _stop thinking_  for once and listen to me,” Kenny says, interrupting him but not moving from the bed.

Something, probably the part of him that hates conflict and would love for this all to wrap up neatly, compels Jack to listen. So, he keeps quiet but still keeps to himself in the relative distance that being across the room offers. Kenny runs a hand through his own hair, only messing it up more.

“I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board and they can free up cap space,” Kenny says, “Then you can be _done_  with this shitty time. You and me-”

“Get out.”

Jack knows how he sounds. His voice is flat and low, but it would be impossible to mistake it for anything but anger. In another lifetime, he’d had let Kenny keep talking and maybe even agreed to it. But he’s not that person anymore. And Jack would rather be damned than let anyone talk about the other Samwell guys. Cheap shots at him? Yeah, they suck but Jack’s used to it. But shots at the boys? Unforgivable. His hands are in fists at his sides and, god, he’s shaking again.

“Jack,” Kenny says, his voice small and betrayed.

Jack turns around so he’s facing his door and counts out then deep breaths. Shockingly, for all the mindfulness tricks his therapist has passed along, this isn’t one of them. No, Jack’s dad had taught him this when Jack was little and would get frustrated at practice. He’d gotten better at skating and hockey, obviously, but the trick is still something he pulls out. Sometimes it works and Jack calms down a little before he hits _vingt_. Except, Jack doesn’t even need to turn around to know Kenny probably still has that wounded look on his face like _Jack_  is in the wrong here.

“You can’t--you don’t come to my _fucking school_  announced-” Jack says, unable to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Because you shut me out!” Kenny argues, the sigh of the bedsprings alerting Jack that he’s getting up.

“-and corner me in my room-” Jack says, trying to act like he was never interrupted.

“I’m trying to help!”   
  
“-and expect me to do whatever you want!” Jack finishes, finally but doesn’t feel any better.

Instead, he’s breathing harder than before. If it wasn’t for the party below, Jack knows the whole Haus would have heard them yelling at each other. Small blessing that this went down in his room and on the front lawn, Jack thinks, because he’d rather not deal with another Swallow issue dedicated to his messy personal life. Especially because Kenny is in his prime now, voice cracking a little when he shouts.

“ _Fuck_ , Jack! What do you want me to say? That I miss you?” Kenny punctuates the sentence by taking a hold of Jack’s elbow.

Jack spins around, fists clenched so tightly that his nails are biting into his palms. If they were on the ice, he’d be able to check Kenny easily. He’s never been much taller, but he easily has about twenty or thirty pounds on Kenny. If he wanted to, Jack could probably send Kenny flying across the room as long as he took the other man off guard. Except, Kenny squeezes Jack’s elbow and the touch is gentle. Kenny doesn’t look at him and his voice is softer when he says, “I miss you, okay?”   


When Jack doesn't immediately shove him off, Kenny puts his hands up against Jack’s chest. One hand curls around Jack’s shoulder while the other grabs a fistful of Jack’s tee shirt. He leans in close, his breath warm and damp as it ghosts across the exposed part of Jack’s neck and collarbone. Jack raises his own hands, letting them hover in the air because he’s still not sure if he wants to hug Kenny or check him into the nearest wall. Despite what he knows people say, Jack isn’t some kind of unfeeling monster. Of course, he’s missed Kenny. He missed playing with him and chirping him and how they were so in sync on the ice that it was almost like Kenny was an extension of himself.

“I _miss_  you,” Kenny repeats, voice low and urgent as he presses his cheek against Jack’s chest.

Jack’s heart is still pounding rapidly, his pulse roaring in his own ears like a full stadium. If Kenny notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he reaches a hand up and gently traces Jack’s jawline with his thumb. No amount of wishful thinking will change the fact that he’s not sixteen or even eighteen anymore. No, Jack is twenty-four and, besides his actual age, the Q and Kenny were a whole lifetime ago. There’s no turning back now. The blood is still a dull roar in his ears and his whole chest feels tight, but Jack makes up his mind and settles his hands on Kent’s shoulders. For a moment, the other man seems to be leaning into the touch, but then Jack begins to push him away with as much control as he can muster.

“You always say that,” Jack says because they’ve had this fight before and he’s so _tired_  of it.

“...huh.” 

Kent seems to be reeling for a minute as if Jack actually checked him. Then, his eyes narrow and his voice stays soft but that only makes it worse when he continues, “Well, _shit_. Okay. You know what, Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough?”

Jack inhales sharply because _of course_  that’s what he thinks. He knows it and Kent knows it. It’s a low blow and Jack should have seen it coming but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less. He tries to turn away, thinking maybe he can lock himself in his and Shitty’s bathroom until Kent gets the hint. But Kent spins so he can keep his eyes locked on Jack like he’s a snake waiting to strike when he continues. “Everybody already _knows_  what you are but it’s people like me who still _care_.”   
  
“Shut up.”

Jack’s voice sounds weak to his own ears. Plus, he really thinks that he might throw up soon, his stomach is knotted and his windpipe is constricted and the familiar burn of bile is at the back of his throat. Jack tries to remind himself that they’ve had this fight before but, instead of making him feel tired, the thought now only makes the sting of what Kent’s saying sharper. The first time they’ve had this argument, Kent’s words seemed kinder - someone might have even mistaken them for tender. Now, his eyes are narrow and he’s sneering like Jack’s something particularly gross that he stepped in on the sidewalk. Jack desperately wants to look anywhere but at Kent and he really needs something to do with his hands. His puck is under the bed and it’s usually that or the low dose prescription Jack has for absolute emergencies only. But, like the kissing, Jack is more than a little afraid that if he starts there he won’t stop so he decides that has to at least try getting the puck out. Except his brain is kinda useless at the moment and he’s only able to hyper-focus on the Aces cap that’s still on his bed as Kent goes on.

“You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right?”

Kent hasn’t moved from the doorway, which is good. That means as ugly and angry he is right now, he’s losing steam. You don’t get to be someone’s best friend without learning their secrets. That’s why Kent knows exactly which spots to press to make Jack’s heart feel like its been through a meat grinder. That’s why Jack knows he has to get rid of the cap unless he wants to give Kent an excuse to return. He really wants to wait until Kent is gone to cry. So, Jack grabs the stupid hat and only takes one giant step to turn around and cross the room so he’s back in front of Kent. There’s a beat where they look at each other, then, “Oh, don’t worry, just give it a few seasons, Jack. Trust me.”

It would be good, Jack thinks, if his voice hadn’t shaken when he said: “get out of my room”. But some things can’t be helped and, at the very least, at least he was able to say it even though it feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs.

“Fine,” Kent snarls, hand on the doorknob, “Shut me out again.”   
  
He doesn’t feel especially good or brave at the moment. In fact, Jack really regrets the fact that he only brought one drink to his room because the booze at least gives him a false sense of confidence if nothing else. And thank god that Kent is leaving, but Kent leaving also means that Kent will be walking through the Haus. So, swallowing the heavy, dry feeling in his throat, Jack says, “And stay...stay away from my team.”

“Why? Afraid I’ll tell them something?”

It’s another low blow and Jack is past the point of rising to the bait, he’s strung out and just wants to get rid of Kent. Jack shoves the hat at Kent, trying to focus all his energy on keeping his hands from shaking and failing miserably. Kent stares down at the hat for what feels like an eternity before he takes it. He levels his gaze on Jack again, his eyes going back to unreadable as he slips back into his public persona. At this point, it’s not even that Kenny is gone - Kent is too and all that’s left in his place is Parse, Aces Captain and Stanley Cup winner and total stranger to Jack.

“ _Leave_ , Parse,” Jack says, hating how his voice sounds like it’s ready to break.

And, finally, Parse doesn’t need to be told again. He opens the door and begins to walk out, except he stops suddenly. Jack looks out and sees Bittle sitting on the floor, right outside Jack’s door. For half a second, the thought of what Parse might do to Bittle terrifies Jack. He’s gotten better since last year, but the kid is still tiny and can’t take a proper check. Kent Parson could probably eat him alive and Jack doesn’t know if he has anything left in him to defend Bittle with. Mercifully, Kent just clears his throat and side-steps Bittle, pulling his hat back on.

“Hey,” he says easily to Bittle, then, “Well, call me if you reconsider or whatever, but good luck with the Falconers...I'm sure that'll make your dad proud.”

Not once does he turn around and look at Jack when he says it. Jack isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse. Either way, he’s shaking as he steps into the hall and watches Parse maneuver his way down the stairs. A loud cheer makes its way through the party suddenly and Jack knows that Parse has at the very least made his way to the bottom. It’s about the last coherent thought he has before the panic takes over him in earnest and all he can think of are the words “make your dad proud”, ringing viciously in his ears. He’s most definitely going to throw up now and maybe later in the night too, but more pressing is the fact that Jack can no longer breathe and his heart feels ready to burst and he always does this and -

And he can’t stand the look of pity on Bittle’s face, so he rushes back into his room with a slam of his door.

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious consent occurs when Jack and Kent kiss. I purposefully left it vague on who initiated, but Jack tells Kent he "can't do this". Kent backs off but then later initiates physical (but non-sexual) contact again. 
> 
> Jack's mental health and anxiety are discussed pretty frankly as he is the POV character. Mainly his internal narrative and the physical symptoms of what an oncoming panic attack feels like for him. Based entirely on my own experiences with them so YMMV.


End file.
